فصل 38

38

A Trilogy of Critical Encounters

At any given time, I am either participating in or monitoring more than 1.3 billion human interactions. On March 27th, Year of the Raptor, I tag three as the most important.

• • •

The first is a conversation I am not privy to.  All I can do is make oblique inferences as to its subject matter. It takes place in the town of San Antonio, in the Texas region. The apartment building has sixty-three floors, the highest of which is a penthouse that has been commandeered by Scythe Ayn Rand.

I have no cameras in the building, as per my rules unique to this region. However, street cameras capture the arrival of several skilled men and women of science: engineers, programmers, even one noted marine biologist. My assumption is that they have been summoned here by Scythe Goddard under some pretense so that he might glean them. He has a propensity for removing those who serve me through their work in the sciences—particularly individuals whose work relates to aerospace. Just last year he gleaned hundreds at Magnetic Propulsion Laboratories, where some of my most skilled engineers were developing methods for deep space travel. And before that, he took the life of a genius in the field of long-term hibernation, but camouflaged it as part of a mass airplane gleaning.

I can make no accusations there, because I have no facts, only educated guesses as to Goddard’s motivation in those gleanings. Just as I have no facts to prove any wrongdoing on the ill-fated moon and Mars colonies, or the doomed orbital habitat. Suffice it to say that Goddard is the most recent in a long line of scythes who look up into the night sky and see not the stars, but the darkness between them.

For several hours, I wait to hear of gleanings within the building, but there are none. Instead, shortly after dark, the visitors emerge. They do not speak to one another of what transpired in that penthouse. But from the strained looks on their faces, I know none will sleep well tonight.

• • •

The second conversation of note takes place in the EastMerican city of Savannah—a municipality that I have meticulously maintained to reflect its mortal age charm.

A quiet coffee shop. A back booth. Three scythes and a scythe’s assistant. Coffee, coffee, latte, hot chocolate. The scythes are disguised in ordinary clothes, allowing for a clandestine meeting in plain sight.

My cameras within this coffee shop have just been disabled by Scythe Michael Faraday, whom most of the world believes self-gleaned over a year ago. It is no matter; I am far from blinded here, because I have a camera-bot sipping tea several tables over. It has no mind. No consciousness. No computational capabilities beyond what is needed to mimic human movement. It is a simple machine designed for a specific purpose: to minimize blind spots so that I may better serve humanity. And today, serving humanity means hearing this conversation.

“It’s good to see you, Michael,” says Scythe Marie Curie. I have observed the rise and the fall of the romantic relationship between the two scythes, as well as the many years of devoted friendship that has followed.

“And you, Marie.”

The cam-bot is faced away from the foursome. This is of no consequence, because its cameras are not in its eyes. Instead, pinpoint cameras circle the bot’s neck, behind a sheer veil of artificial skin, providing a three-hundred-sixty-degree view at all times. Its multidirectional microphones are in its torso. Its head is merely a prosthetic decoration, filled with polystyrene foam to prevent it from becoming infested with insects that are so prevalent in this part of the world.

Faraday turns to Scythe Anastasia. His smile is warm. Paternal. “I understand our apprentice is growing into quite a scythe.” “She makes us proud.”

The capillaries in Scythe Anastasia’s face expand. Her cheeks turn slightly pink from their praise.

“Oh, but I’m being rude,” says Faraday. “Let me introduce you to my assistant.” The young woman has sat patiently and politely for two minutes, nineteen seconds, allowing the scythes their little reunion. Now she puts her hand forward to shake Scythe Curie’s. “Hi, I’m Munira Atrushi.” She shakes Scythe Anastasia’s hand as well, but it almost seems like an afterthought.

“Munira hails from Israebia, and the Great Library. She has been invaluable to my research.” “What kind of research?” Anastasia asks.

Faraday and Munira hesitate. Then Faraday says, “Historical and geographical,” but then quickly changes the subject, clearly not ready to discuss it yet. “So, does the scythedom suspect that I am still alive?” “Not that I can see,” responds Scythe Curie. “Although I’m sure quite a few fantasize how things would be if you were still there.” She takes a sip of her latte, which I measure to be at one hundred seventy-six degrees Fahrenheit. I worry that she may burn her lips, but she is careful. “You would have taken conclave by storm if you had made a magical appearance the way Goddard did. I have no doubt you’d be High Blade now.” “You will make a fine High Blade,” Faraday says, with a measure of admiration.

“Well,” says Curie, “there is a hurdle to overcome.”

“You’ll do it, Marie,” Anastasia reassures.

“And,” says Faraday, “I imagine you will be her first underscythe.”

Munira raises her eyebrows, obviously a bit dubious about it. Her gesture does not escape Anastasia.

“Third underscythe,” Anastasia corrects. “Cervantes and Mandela will take first and second position. After all, I’m still just a junior scythe.” “And unlike Xenocrates, I won’t delegate my underscythes to the periphery to deal with minutiae,” says Curie.

I am pleased that Scythe Curie is already talking like a High Blade. Even with no contact with the scythedom, I can recognize a worthy leader. Xenocrates was functional, nothing more. These times call for someone exceptional. I am not privy to the vote tally, because the scythedom’s server is cut off from me, so I can only hope that either the vote or the inquest will favor Scythe Curie.

“As nice as it is to see you, Michael, I imagine this is not just a social call,” says Scythe Curie. She takes a moment to look around, sparing only the briefest glance at the man sitting a few tables over, sipping tea. The “man” only pretends to sip the tea now, because its internal bladder is full and needs to be drained.

“No, it’s not a social call,” Scythe Faraday admits, “and forgive me for dragging you so far from home, but I felt meeting in MidMerica might draw unwanted attention.” “I enjoy EastMerica,” says Curie, “especially the coastal regions. I don’t get here enough.” She and Anastasia wait for Faraday to explain the meaning of this summit. I am particularly curious how he’ll broach the subject for which he has gathered them. I listen intently.

“We have uncovered something remarkable,” Faraday begins. “You’ll think I’ve lost my mind when you hear what I have to tell you, but believe me, I have not.” Then he stops and defers to his assistant. “Munira, as you made the discovery, would you be so kind as to enlighten our friends?” “Of course, Your Honor.”

She then pulls out an image of the Pacific Ocean, covered with a crosshatch of flight paths. It clearly shows the space over which no planes have crossed. The void is of no concern to me. I never needed to route planes over this spot of open sea, simply because there were better routes that took advantage of prevailing winds. The only thing that troubles me is that I never noticed it before.

They put forth their theory that this is the location of the mythical Land of Nod, and the founders’ failsafe, should the scythedom fail.

“There’s no guarantee,” qualifies Munira. “All we know for sure is that the blind spot exists. We believe the founders programmed the Thunderhead just before it achieved awareness to ignore its existence. They hid it from the rest of the world. We can only guess at the reason.” This theory does not trouble me in the least. And yet I know that it should. I am now troubled by how little I am troubled.

“You’ll forgive me, Michael, if my concerns are more immediate,” Scythe Curie tells him. “If Goddard becomes High Blade, it will open a door that cannot be closed.” “You should come with us to Endura, Scythe Faraday,” urges Anastasia. “The Grandslayers will listen to you.” But, of course, Faraday declines the invitation with a shake of his head. “The Grandslayers already know what’s going on out there, and they are split as to what direction the scythedom should take.” He pauses to look at the map still spread out before them. “If the scythedom falls into disarray, the founders’ failsafe may be the only hope to save it.” “We don’t even know what that failsafe is!” Anastasia points out.

To which Faraday replies, “There’s only one way to find out.”

Now Scythe Curie’s heart accelerates from seventy-two to eighty-four beats per minute, most likely the result of an adrenaline surge. “If a piece of the world has been hidden for hundreds of years, there’s no telling what you’ll find there. It won’t be under Thunderhead control, which means it could very well be dangerous—even deadly—and there won’t be a revival center to bring you back if it is.” As an aside, it pleases me that Scythe Curie has perspective enough to realize that my absence there is a perilous thing. And yet I don’t find it perilous myself. I don’t find it problematic. I should. I make a note that I must contribute substantial processing time to analyze my unusual lack of concern.

“Yes, we’ve considered the danger,” Munira confirms. “Which is why we’re headed to the old Columbia District first.” Scythe Curie’s entire physiology changes again at the mention of the old Columbia District. Her most infamous gleanings took place there, before I divided North Merica into more manageable regions. Although I never requested her intervention in doing away with the corrupt vestiges of mortal government, I can’t deny that it made my work easier to accomplish.

“Why go there?” she asks, not hiding her distaste. “It’s nothing but ruins and memories best forgotten.” “There are historians in D.C. that maintain the old Library of Congress,” Munira explains. “Physical volumes that may have things we can’t find in the backbrain.” “I hear the place is lousy with unsavories,” says Anastasia.

Munira gives her a haughty look. “I may not be a scythe, but I once apprenticed under Scythe Ben-Gurion. I can handle myself against unsavories.” Scythe Curie puts her hand on Faraday’s, which causes his heart rate to slightly elevate, as well. “Wait, Michael,” she implores. “Wait until after the inquest. If all goes as we hoped, I can arrange a formal expedition to the blind spot. And if not, I’ll join you on your quest, because I will not remain in a scythedom helmed by Goddard.” “This cannot wait, Marie,” Faraday says. “I’m afraid things are becoming more dire for the scythedom every day—not just in MidMerica but everywhere. I have been monitoring turmoil within regional scythedoms around the world. In Upper Australia, new-order scythes call themselves the Double-Edged Order and are gaining more and more traction. In TransSiberia, the scythedom is shattering into half a dozen opposing factions, and the Chilargentine scythedom, although they’ll deny it, is on the verge of an internal war.” All these things, and more, I have also surmised from what I’ve been able to see and hear. I am glad that someone else has taken notice of the global picture, and what it could mean.

Now I note Anastasia’s ambivalence—she is torn between the positions of her two mentors. “If the founding scythes decided it was best to remove the place from memory, maybe we should honor that.” “They meant to hide it,” interjects Munira, “but it wasn’t their intention to make it disappear from the world!” “You don’t know what the founders were thinking!” countered Anastasia. Clearly these two have little patience for each other, like siblings vying for parental affection. A server begins to clear their empty cups without asking, which throws Scythe Curie for a moment. She is used to much more deferential treatment—but in plain clothes, and her long silver hair up in a bun, she is merely a customer here.

“I see that we can do nothing to change your mind about this journey,” Scythe Curie says, once the server is gone. “So what is it you need from us, Michael?” “I merely wish for you to know,” he tells her. “You will be the only ones aware of what we’ve discovered . . . and where we’ve gone.” Which, of course, isn’t entirely true.

• • •

The third conversation is not of much importance to the world, but it is of great importance to me.

It takes place in a Tonist cloister smack in the middle of MidMerica. I have cameras and microphones mounted inconspicuously throughout the cloister. Although Tonists shun scythes, they do not shun me, because I protect their right to exist in a world where most people wish that they didn’t. They may speak with me less than others, but they know I am there for them, if and when they need me.

A scythe pays a visit to the cloister today. This is never a good thing. I was forced to witness the massacre of more than a hundred Tonists by Scythe Goddard and his disciples at a Tonist cloister, early in the Year of the Capybara. All I could do was watch until my cameras mercifully melted in the flames. I can only hope that this encounter is of a different nature.

The scythe is Honorable Scythe Cervantes, formerly of the Franco- Iberian scythedom. He left there some years ago, and aligned himself with MidMerica instead. It gives me hope that this is not a gleaning—because the gleaning of  Tonists was the reason why he left.

No one greets him in the long brick colonnade that marks the entry into the cloister. My cameras swivel to follow him—something that scythes like to call “the silent salute,” and have learned to ignore.

He keeps walking as if he knows where he’s going, although he doesn’t; a common mannerism of scythes. He finds the visitor’s center, where a Tonist named Brother McCloud sits behind a desk to hand out brochures and offer empathy to any lost souls who wander in, in search of a meaning to their lives. The sandy-brown fabric of Scythe Cervantes’s robe is very similar to the mud-shade burlap that Tonists wear. It makes him a little less off-putting to them.

While Brother McCloud’s greeting to ordinary citizens is always warm and cordial, his greeting to a scythe is not—especially after the last scythe he met broke his arm.

“State your business here.”

“I’m looking for Greyson Tolliver.”

“I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name.”

Cervantes sighs. “Swear on the tone of the Great Resonance,” he says.

Brother McCloud hesitates. “I don’t have to do anything you say.”

“So,” says Scythe Cervantes, “your refusal to swear on the Great Resonance tells me that you’re lying. Now we have two choices here. We can make this a long and miserably drawn out affair in which I find Greyson Tolliver, or you can just bring me to him. Choice A will leave me irritated, and I may glean one or more of you for inconveniencing me. Choice B will be best for all involved.” Another hesitation from Brother McCloud. As a Tonist, he is not practiced in making decisions for himself. I’ve observed that one of the benefits of being a Tonist is to have a vast majority of decisions made for you, leading to a low-stress existence.

“I’m waiting,” says Cervantes. “Tick-tock.”

“Brother Tolliver has religious asylum here,” Brother McCloud finally says. “You are not allowed to glean him.” Again Cervantes sighs. “No,” he corrects, “I am not allowed to remove him, but as long as he does not have immunity, I have every right to glean him if that’s what I’m here for.” “Is that why you’re here?” asks Brother McCloud.

“That’s none of your business. Now bring me to ‘Brother Tolliver,’ or I shall tell your curate that you revealed to me your sect’s secret harmonies.” The threat leaves Brother McCloud in a conflicted state of terror. He hurries off, then returns with Curate Mendoza, who makes more threats, which Cervantes matches with his own, and when it is clear that Cervantes will not be deterred, Curate Mendoza says, “I will ask him if he is willing to receive you. If he is, I will take you to him. If not, we will all defend him with our lives, if necessary.” Curate Mendoza leaves, then returns a few minutes later. “Follow me,” he says.

Greyson Tolliver waits for the scythe in the smaller of two chapels on the cloister grounds. This is a chapel meant for personal reflection, with a smaller tuning fork and bowl of primordial water at the altar.

“We will be right outside the door, Brother Tolliver,” says the curate, “if at any time you need us.” “Right, if I need you I’ll call,” says Greyson, who appears to be in a hurry to get on with this.

They leave, closing the door. I move my camera at the back of the chapel very slowly, so as to not disturb the encounter with the nuisance of a mechanical whir.

Cervantes approaches Greyson, who kneels in the second row of the small chapel. He doesn’t even turn to see the scythe. Greyson’s body modifications have been removed, and his artificially blackened hair shorn—although it has now grown in enough to cover his head in a trim style.

“If you’re here to glean me, make it quick,” he says. “And try to make it bloodless, so there’s less to clean up.” “Are you so impatient to leave this world?”

Greyson doesn’t answer the question. Cervantes introduces himself, and sits beside him, but does not yet speak of why he’s here. Perhaps he wants to first see if Greyson Tolliver is worthy of his attention.

“I’ve done some research on you,” Cervantes said.

“Find anything interesting?”

“I know that Greyson Tolliver doesn’t exist. I know that your real name is Slayd Bridger, and that you sent a bus off of a bridge.” Greyson laughs at that. “So you found my secret dark history,” he says, not bothering to disabuse Cervantes of his erroneous notions. “Good for you.” “I know that you were somehow involved in the plot to end Scythes Anastasia and Curie,” Cervantes says, “and that Scythe Constantine is turning the region upside down looking for you.” Greyson turns to him for the first time. “So you’re not working for him?” “I work for no one,” Cervantes says. “I work for humanity, as all scythes do.” Then he turns to regard the silver tuning fork protruding from the altar before them. “In my native Barcelona, Tonists are much more troublesome than here. They have a tendency to attack scythes, which forces us to glean them. My quota kept getting clogged by Tonists I didn’t want to glean, preventing me from making my own choices. It was one of the reasons why I came to MidMerica—although lately, I’m wondering if it might be a decision I’ll come to regret.” “Why are you here, Your Honor? If it’s to glean me, you could have done it by now.” “I’m here,” Cervantes finally says, “at the request of Scythe Anastasia.” At first Greyson seems pleased by this, but it quickly dissolves into bitterness. It seems so much about him is bitter now. It was never my intent to leave him thus.

“She’s too busy to check on me herself?”

“Actually, yes,” Cervantes tells him. “She’s up to her neck in rather serious scythe business,” but he does not offer any details.

“Well, I’m here, I’m alive, and I’m among people who actually care about my well-being.” “I am here to offer you safe passage to Amazonia,” Cervantes tells him. “Apparently, Scythe Anastasia has a friend there who can offer you a far better life than you’ll find as a Tonist.” Greyson looks around the chapel as he takes in the offer. Then he responds with the following rhetorical question: “Who says I want to go?” This surprises Cervantes. “You mean you’d rather hum your life away here than escape to a place of greater safety?” “The intoning is annoying,” Greyson admits, “but I’ve gotten used to the routine. And the people are nice.” “Yes, the mindless can be pleasant.”

“The point is, they make me feel like I belong. I’ve never really felt that. So yes, I can hum their tone, and perform their silly rituals, because it’s worth what I get in return.” Cervantes scoffs. “You would live a lie?”

“Only if it makes me happy.”

“And does it?”

Greyson considers it. I consider it as well. I can only live the truth. I wonder if living a lie would improve my emotional configuration.

“Curate Mendoza believes I can find happiness as one of them. After the terrible things I’ve done—the bus plunge and all—I think it’s worth a try.” “Is there nothing I can do to dissuade you?”

“Nothing,” Greyson says, with more certainty than he had a moment ago. “Consider your mission accomplished.  You promised Scythe Anastasia that you would offer me passage to a place of greater safety. You’ve done that. You can go now.” Cervantes stands, and smooths out his robe. “Then good day, Mr. Bridger.” Cervantes leaves, making sure to push the heavy wooden doors open with a bang, thereby knocking the curate and Brother McCloud—who are listening at the door—off their feet.

Once Cervantes is gone, the curate comes in to check on Greyson, who sends him away, assuring him that all is well.

“I need some time to reflect,” he tells the curate, who smiles.

“Ah. That’s Tonist code for, ‘Leave me the hell alone,’ ” Curate Mendoza says. “You might also try, ‘I wish to ponder the resonance.’ That works just as well.” He leaves Greyson, closing the doors to the chapel. I pull closer focus on Greyson once the curate is gone, hoping to read something in his face. I do not have the ability to read minds. I could develop technology to do so, but by its very nature, it would cross the line into personal intrusion. But at times like this, I wish that I could do more than just observe. I wish I could commune.

And then Greyson begins to speak. To me.

“I know you’re watching,” he says to the empty chapel. “I know you’re listening. I know you’ve seen all that’s happened to me these past few months.” He pauses. I remain silent. It is not by choice.

He closes his eyes, which now spill tears, and in desperation reminiscent of prayer, implores me. “Please let me know you’re still there,” he begs. “I need to know you haven’t forgotten me. Please, Thunderhead . . .” But his ID still flashes the red U. His unsavory designation carries a minimum four-month term, and I cannot answer him. I am bound by my own laws.

“Please,” he begs, his tears overwhelming his emotional nanites’ attempt to ease his distress. “Please give me a sign. That’s all I ask. Just a sign that you haven’t abandoned me.” And then I realize that, although there is a law against my direct communication with an unsavory, I do not have a law against signs and wonders.

“Please . . . ,” he begs.

And so I oblige. I reach out into the electrical grid, and douse the lights. Not just in the chapel, but throughout all of  Wichita. The lights of the city blink for 1.3 seconds. All for the benefit of Greyson Tolliver. To prove beyond a shadow of doubt how much I care, and how heartbroken I would be for all he has suffered, if I had a heart capable of such malfunction.

But Greyson Tolliver does not know. He does not see . . . because his eyes are shut too tightly to know anything beyond his own anguish.